


A Little Bit Strange

by 7CuteCreationImagination7



Series: Teen Wolf Ficlets/Headcanons/AUs [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, F/M, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Moral Ambiguity, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Stiles-centric, stiles is a good person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:11:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7CuteCreationImagination7/pseuds/7CuteCreationImagination7
Summary: Agent Rodriguez tries to understand the Stilinski kid. He fails miserably.Post canon. I have feelings.





	A Little Bit Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!
> 
> I'm kind of on a teen wolf oneshot roll, so... sorry. If this is innacurate, then please tell me so I can fix it!:)
> 
> I hope you like it. Love you and God Bless.

Stiles is an odd case.

At first, at first Agent Rodriguez assumed he was like the majority of the other kids that wanted to be part of the FBI: smart kids who had watched too many spy movies and wanted glory.

And he fulfilled that part perfectly, the part of the smart but privileged kid that had no clue what he was getting himself into. 

The boy was kind of annoying, ADHD notwithstanding. He didn’t talk to the other kids much and somehow managed to speak non-stop at the same time.

But, even then, even at the start, he had a hunch that something wasn’t quite right with the kid. His other teachers felt the same, so much so that figuring out the Stilinski kid was a common topic of conversation in the staff room.

The first time he got an inkling of what was so strange about the kid was when he sat in as a supervisor for an Ethics class.

The standard question was posed to all the nineteen-year-olds: Would You Ever Kill Someone?

He remembered sighing. This question always came up, the students always gave the same answers, and the group of students that gave mediocre answers would be put down as prospective agents, and the ones with self-righteous answers would be put down as prospective paper-work helpers.

A portion of the students hemmed and hawed, reciting the standard answer or “ Killing is never good, but if ordered to do so, and if it will benefit more than harm, people may have to do it.”

The other portion turned a beautiful shade of green and began spouting things about how killing was never right, and how no one ever deserved to die.

But Agent Williams looked up suddenly, and his dark eyes zeroed onto the Stilinski kid, eyebrows furrowing as he asked, dark lips curling into a smile, 

“Well, sir, it seems that you don’t want to answer, however, I need to record your thoughts on this matter. Would you ever kill someone?”

The boy’s eyes darkened, his lips curled into a frown. The boy that cracked jokes, with whiskey coloured eyes dancing as he blabbered carelessly was gone. This was someone else, dark brown eyes, white skin and black messy hair. 

“Yes. I wouldn’t enjoy it. I wouldn’t do it unprovoked, but if it came to it, yes. Because sometimes, sometimes you have to get your hands messy to prevent multiple deaths. It sucks, but sometimes killing one person can end up preventing the deaths of many. So yeah, lock me up with the other freakshows, but yeah. I would kill if push came to shove.”

The class went silent. Rodriguez left. Stiles got the best mark out of everyone else the term.

Emotions were not things that came well to the agents. They were taught to ignore them, to deal with them later. But every single one of the teachers reacted very emotionally to what Stiles had said. 

The older teachers, the most experienced swelled with excitement and pride, exclaiming that they wanted to take the boy under their wing, that mental training was the hardest part, and without that hurdle, the boy would be brilliant.

The students were scared of Stiles. They laughed at his jokes, playfully teased him and remained as they had been before. But as the semester progressed as friendships began to solidify, it became apparent that whilst Stiles was friends with pretty much everyone, they all held him at arm's length.

Rodriguez and his friends were terrified — not of him, but for him. Teenagers shouldn’t have answers to deep moral questions on the tips of their tongue. Teenagers shouldn’t have to clench shaking hands into fists. There was something seriously weird with the Stilinski kid.

The next incident happened a few months later, after Stiles had convinced the Agents to take him on that mission, and had come back with an injured toe and his fingernails caked in some strange soot.

It was routine to check the student’s flats when they were in lessons, just to check for any terrorist activity, any possible espionage because they were dangerously close to FBI information.

As the two most senior student supervisors, he and his colleague, Agent Res, had searched Stiles’ dorm. 

No links to terrorists. Nothing linking him to espionage, so his name was clear. But there were little things that were just on the wrong side of unsettling. Things like the fact that his standard case of bullets didn’t just contain steel bullets, but ones of different metals, some even made of compressed powders and herbs. Things like the odd lines of dust on the window ledges and doors. 

The most unnerving of all was the phone book. It was full of numbers, international numbers. One which was traced to France, another to Mexico, a few in Latin America, and many centred in Beacon Hills. Even stranger was the notes attached to each one, odd things like, “ For when the problem isn’t fixable” next to the number for the vet. Or the note of “ For when a single soldier isn’t enough” attached to the phone number in France.

Res had pressed her pink lips together as they stared at the bullet case and the phone book. The let her head fall back onto the couch and looked over to him, her expression unreadable.

“ This kid’s been through something. He isn’t a threat to us or the country, but there’s something missing. Something that must be blindingly obvious to someone, but not us.”

The third instance happened in the second year. It was no secret amongst the students that Stiles didn’t sleep much. The messy black hair and the purple eye bags attesting to his slightly insomniac tendencies.

Therefore, everyone assumed, even the teachers and trainers, even the agents, that he would fail miserably in the physical training tests.

The kid was tall, sure, and he certainly wasn’t fat. But his adoration of curly fries and his lack of sleep didn’t exactly speak of a person that had a rigorous exercise regime. It indicated the life of a sedentary person that spent as little time outside as possible.

So, everyone was in the gym. The girls in sports bras and shorts, the guys in shorts. Stilinski came in with a t-shirt. 

“Look Stilinski, we get that being the only one to not have a six-pack suck, but really, no one is going to want to look at you.” barked out the instructor.

McStran was the scariest instructor, and everyone liked putting the first lesson on the TV screen, to look at the training sessions. Bets were passed around on who would puke, who would flirt with McStran and who would cry first. 

Stilinski paused, before pulling the white t-shirt off, and stepping into the shadows. McStran nodded in his general direction, the kid’s pale face barely visible as he practically hid in the corner.

Then, when everyone was ordered on the running machines, everyone got their bundles of money ready.

The test was to see how long they could all run at this pace. It was a medium running speed, but after an hour of running at that pace, people’s mental stamina would wane with their physical stamina. People would storm off the machine, cry, a few would even just sit down on the floor.

A boy stepped off first, after the first fifty minutes, his face green as he hastily stumbled towards the toilets. Next, the girl, her face having gone from bright red to sickly pale turned her machine off, and just sat down on the floor, ten minutes later. 

Slowly, people began stepping off the machines, some wiping tears and sweat from the black plastic. 

They zeroed in the camera on the two people left. One girl, her dark curls up in a sweaty bun as dark eyes stared forwards. Her dark skin was slick with sweat, her cheeks flushed, but she still kept going.

Next to her was Stiles. It was a strange sight. There was lean muscle, instead of the white flab they had expected, on his arms and legs. But then. now as the light shone on him, there were a few details that they hadn’t noticed before. 

Scars. Long thin scratches and puncture wounds on his neck, like a hawk, had tried to use him as a perch. A long jagged scar down his abdomen. A ring of scars on his leg. And there were other scars, little ones.

It looked as if the boy had spent his life trapped in cages full of rabid animals. 

But the weirdest thing was his eyes, everyone was transfixed as they stared, the sounds of money being passed and popcorn being munched were the only things as everyone stared. Awed.

They weren’t their soft caramel colour, that had made his features distinctive enough to have to have warned him that he would have to wear coloured contacts. They weren’t the cognac colour that flared up when a light shone on them, or when he was happy.

They looked like fire. They flickered and danced like flames licking up a house. His pupils were minuscule, like tiny nuclei in the centre of an atomic bomb.

 

They ended up calling a draw, after three hours. 

The boy had kept running until someone had shaken him, and he had startled, muttering something about Winston Churchill. 

 

And now, now he and his colleagues were trying to make sense of the scene in front of them. It looked like the other agents, teachers and students were also trying to fit this piece into the bewildering jigsaw puzzle that was Mie— whatever, Stiles Stilinski.

They had said that, for the last week, all friends were allowed to stay in dorms with the students. The popular kids had brought twenty kids their age, all with the same smarts, the same family connections. 

Stiles had brought a bizarre pack of people. Some, some made sense. Two boys, Scott and Isaac. They were his age, had similar height, and they had all gone to the same school at one point. His girlfriend also made some sense, though many were flabbergasted as to how the dorky if muscular boy had managed to get the gorgeous red-head to date him. 

The others didn’t make sense. A boy, two years younger than him, with bright blue eyes, that swung between childlike emotions and comments, to pure unadulterated rage. Most figured out that it was a brother-like relationship of some sort. 

The blunt girl with the short brown hair was confusing. It was clear that Stiles was dating the red-head, but she occasionally asked him strange questions, such as, “ People keep on asking me if I want drinks. It isn’t hot here. I don’t look thirsty. Explain,”

The girl with auburn hair was also bewildering. She scowled at everything that breathed. She even scowled as she hugged people. She appeared to have a soft sport for Stiles, but it was a sibling relationship.

The Scott boy was the leader of all of this. But it was, according to the psychology agents, Stiles, that was the glue. The girl with the red hair and the taller, blonde boy seemed to be tied to them as well. The rest seemed to be like siblings or cousins.

There was a bond between them that impressed the other groups, but this group was impenetrable. Inside jokes about a “tree stump of doom”, a “sourwolf” and referring to almost everyone as puppies, wolves or cubs made it almost impossible for anyone to understand them.

 

Rodriguez didn’t know what bound this mismatched group of teens together. All he knew was that the Stiles boy was special. This boy appeared to be the outsider, the pale skinny kid amongst the group of very muscular, tanned California kids. The dork amongst the jocks. But, if you looked closely, you could see that things hinged on him. He could silence arguments with a glare, would snark and sass himself out of inexplicably tense moments, and managed to console his friends whilst lightly insulting them.

The boy was a complete and utter mystery to everyone, even after a full year as both as a student and as an intern.

And that he was going to make the most fantastic agent the FBI had ever seen.


End file.
